


things we lost in the flames

by chibistarlyte



Series: Hobbit Drabbles [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ambiguously Shippy, Character Study, Drabble, Light Angst, M/M, now with Russian translation!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:33:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1549073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibistarlyte/pseuds/chibistarlyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin has a moment of reflection at Beorn's house about all the things he's lost in fire and the one thing he doesn't want to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	things we lost in the flames

**Author's Note:**

> So I was on the train heading to school this morning when I accidentally ficced. Oops. This is just a little drabble inspired by Things We Lost In the Fire by Bastille. This is my first attempt at any Tolkien-ish fanfiction, so I hope it's okay. .__.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: This fic has been translated into Russian and can be read here: http://ficbook.net/readfic/2205524

He couldn’t see the Lonely Mountain past the thick, oppressive trees of Mirkwood. Still, Thorin’s gaze kept east where he knew his home was waiting for him. Waiting for him to rescue her from the clutches of the beast that laid waste to everything Thorin’s people had worked to build.

Thorin took a long drag from his pipe and exhaled, the smoke coming in thick streams out of his nostrils. It did little to calm his nerves, to ease the tension that seized his every muscle, but he would take this short stretch of peace while he had it. Beorn had been kind enough to grant his company a brief repose in his home, but there was still much to do.

There was still a dragon waiting for them at the end of this journey. Thorin wanted nothing more than to slay the wretched wyrm by his own hand, to rid Middle Earth of the creature’s tyranny forever. Killing Smaug wouldn’t bring back all he had lost in the flames, but it would at least abate his hunger for vengeance. Even if only a little.

But Thorin wasn’t sure he was ready to face what would await them in Erebor. How much destruction had the dragon wrought in the dwarves’ absence? Would there be nothing left but rubble and ash? All the finery that his people paid for with their blood and sweat, gone? Was there even a kingdom left for him to rule?

Could something ever be rebuilt from the ruin he was sure they’d find there?

“Thorin?”

The King Without a Mountain turned his head at the call of his name, the beginnings of an unbidden smile barely tugging at the corners of his lips. There Bilbo stood with his own pipe between his little fingers, shifting uneasily from foot to hairy foot. He cleared his throat and asked, “May I join you?”

The dwarf gave a singular nod and moved over a smidgen to give Bilbo room to sit on the step. The hobbit shuffled over and eased himself down next to Thorin. They were close enough that their shoulders and knees touched, and Thorin didn’t mind. Bilbo lit up his pipe and took a drag, the embers lighting a dull orange as he inhaled. Thorin puffed on his own pipe, blowing out billows of smoke and watching Bilbo’s smoke rings cut through the smog and clear it away.

Without thinking, Thorin reached out beside him and plucked Bilbo’s hand from his knee. It was so tiny and delicate compared to his own gigantic paw, all thick fingers and weathered skin from years both forging and wielding weapons. Bilbo, in turn, twined their fingers together and squeezed, his palm soft and reassuring against Thorin’s own.

The hobbit, for all he liked to chatter with the rest of the company, understood the importance of silence. And in that moment, Thorin was eternally grateful that Bilbo neither questioned nor pressured him to give voice to the churning thoughts in his mind. He was a steady, solid presence at Thorin’s side, and if the little hobbit leaned some of his weight against the dwarf, neither of them commented on it. Thorin reveled in this moment of shared tenderness, and he took a deep, smoky breath, deflating with his heavy exhale of heady fumes. There would probably not be a time like this for the rest of their quest.

Thorin would be lying if he said some small part of him didn’t want to just forsake this whole quest. To let the past rest because he’d finally, _finally_ , found some sort of happiness and he was so frightened to lose yet another precious thing to the dragon that had already taken so much from him. For the little Halfling was worth more than every piece of treasure in that hoard, even the Arkenstone itself. Thorin tried not to think about the very horrible, fiery fate waiting for Bilbo inside that mountain should he fail his task. The very fate that awaited so many of his kin. His entire world engulfed in flames, with nothing to douse them.

And now that same heat, that burning desire for revenge and reclamation, was what kept Thorin moving forward.

Bilbo laid his head on Thorin’s shoulder and nuzzled his cheek into the rough fabric of the dwarf’s tunic. In response, Thorin twisted his head and laid a kiss into those gorgeous chestnut curls atop the hobbit’s head, his lips lingering far longer than necessary.

It was more than a kiss—it was a promise. A silent promise of protection, of devotion.

Thorin refused to lose anything else to fire. Not when he’d found something he treasured above all else.


End file.
